


if it feels real

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curses, M/M, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: "Now how about we get you out of here?” She stood up, glancing around with pursed lips. “A fairly detailed dream, I have to admit.”He stared up at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The pain he felt was certainly very real, both from the wound in his side and the other pain. The pain he hadn’t been able to get rid of since Jaskier left.Yennefer tilted her head, peering down at him with something akin to pity. It was unsettling.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 373





	if it feels real

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo i havent posted in a while - just been busy and dealing with some personal stuff but im back <3 hope yall enjoy!!
> 
> twitter: queermight  
> tumblr: korrmin

Geralt hadn’t _wanted_ to take the job. He never thought that day would come, but standing as he did over Jaskier’s resting form, cheeks flushed with sickness, lips cracked no matter how much he drank, he didn’t want to leave for even a minute.

But Jaskier wasn’t getting better and their funds were low, especially with Jaskier unable to play, and he couldn’t rightfully try to move him, not in this state.

Left with no other option, he sat heavily in the chair by the bed. Jaskier groaned, eyelashes fluttering. “Ger’lt?” he asked, slurred and quiet.

Geralt ignored the painful squeeze of his heart as he reached out and placed a hand on Jaskier’s forehead; he was still burning up, hot as a fire. Geralt hmmed as he withdrew his hand. Jaskier’s eyes finally opened, bleary and unseeing.

“You’re still sick,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier let out a pained laugh. “Mm, really? Didn’t notice.”

Geralt frowned. “That mouth will be the death of you,” he said, and Jaskier grinned; even in this state, sweaty and pale as he was, Geralt understood what so many saw in him. “I took a job,” he continued after a comfortable beat of silence.

He didn’t miss the disappointed twitch of Jaskier’s mouth, but for once he didn’t voice it. Like Geralt, Jaskier had to know they were running low on funds.

“How long?” he asked instead.

Geralt wished he knew. “Not too long,” he said, because he couldn’t take more of Jaskier’s disappointment. “Unfortunately, I don’t think this job will provide much in way of content for future ballads,” he continued because he knew—he _knew_ Jaskier, and he knew that would get a tiny smile out of him.

“That _is_ unfortunate,” he said with a small cough. “What is it? The monster or—or whatever?”

Geralt couldn’t fight his own smile, small and genuine. “Not a monster,” he confessed. He had been approached in the tavern below and the pay was impressive, though the job seemed surprisingly easy, which had him on edge. “Just going to collect some lost items.”

Jaskier made a face. “Waste of your time,” he said confidently.

“Mhm,” he agreed lowly, reaching for the blanket and pulling it higher, tucking it under Jaskier’s chin. Jaskier stuck his tongue out, always childish no matter his age. Geralt’s heart warmed; when had this silly man begun to mean so much to him? He was a little afraid to examine the answer too closely. “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said. “You get your rest. I’ll tell the innkeeper to check on you.”

Jaskier sighed, letting his eyes flutter shut again. “Geralt,” he said as he gathered his things. “Be safe, okay?”

Geralt stopped, turning toward the bed. “Wait for me,” he said, and Jaskier’s answering laugh was hushed but sincere.

“Don’t think I have much of a choice,” he said, gesturing around blindly before letting his arm fall heavily back to the bed.

With a snort, Geralt turned and left the room. If he lingered in the hall for a beat too long, well, no one was there to judge him.

*

Geralt met with the contractors back down in the tavern; a group waited for him, peering at his swords. He grunted, “Never can be too safe.”

One of the men—Jorulf—stepped forward, holding out a bulging pouch of coins. Geralt eyed it skeptically before finally taking it. “Half now, the other half will be given after we have our goods back.”

Geralt hmmed, opening the pouch. Real coins. His earlier fear was basically confirmed, but—he didn’t have much of a choice. “This much for just fetching some items?” he asked gruffly, and Jorulf had a good poker face, at least, nodding quickly. “Most be valuable stuff.”

“The journey will be rough,” he said easily. “Unlike some people, we pay accordingly.”

Geralt lifted his gaze again; Jorulf wasn’t smiling, but he looked sincere. He twisted around to safely tuck the pouch inside his bag. “It might take me a while,” he said. There was a quirk of Jorulf’s mouth that was a little too knowing.

“Your bard, right?” he asked, and Geralt barely resisted the urge to tense. No need to put Jaskier at risk by showcasing the depth of his feelings for him. “Don’t worry. We’ll check in on him.”

Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes slightly. Jorulf put his hands up.

“We won’t hurt him, swear on my life,” he said, and Geralt didn’t smell any deceit on him, sharp and sour like fear but even worse. Nodding curtly, he relaxed a little.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the tavern. Roach was waiting for him like always; untying her, he ran a hand down her long neck. “Come on,” he said, gruff but gentle. She snorted.

Geralt didn’t dare look back at the tavern or else he might never actually leave; Jaskier would be fine, he was always fine. He was a surprisingly sturdy human.

Mounting Roach, he gave a firm tug and they were off; it was unusual, now, to ride without Jaskier’s arms around his waist, his voice hushed in his ear, speaking of everything and nothing all at once. It was like the old days again, just him and Roach. He was surprised, though not really, to find he preferred the former.

“Better never let Jaskier know, hm?” he said over the rush of wind. “He’d never shut up about it.” Roach’s only reply was another quiet snort.

*

Geralt was prepared for the worst, his sword drawn, as he approached the cave. He couldn’t hear or smell anything, not even an animal, but he wasn’t dumb enough to let his guard down. As he drew closer, he gripped his sword slightly tighter and peered around the edge; the cave wasn’t empty, far from it, it was full to the brim with goods. Shining jewelry and old-looking books, mostly, with some random trinkets.

But no sign of a human or monster or even a stray animal.

He lowered his sword just a little. “Finally,” he grumbled. Like Jaskier always said, life eventually had to give you a break. Geralt hadn’t believed that but now, entering the cave, he hoped it was true. He just wanted to grab the stuff and get back to Jaskier as quickly as possible.

Jorulf had precisely described the jewelry when he had first approached him and now Geralt searched for it; there was _so much._ He knew if Jaskier was with him, he’d want to take it all and sell it. He supposed that wouldn’t be too unfair, considering their owners had no way of retrieving them. Might as well get some use out of it.

He grabbed some odd pieces and shoved them in his bag as he continued his search. Finally he found Jorulf’s stuff, still together in one pile on top of a book. Geralt frowned as he picked all the pieces up and twisted to put them in his bag with the rest.

(“And how did your stuff get there?” he had asked, eyeing him skeptically.

Jorulf hadn't flinched. “There’s an orphan,” he had said breezily. “Been stealing from the local villages for a while now, usually targeting travelers like myself.”)

Geralt had doubted the story from the start but—as long as the job was this easy, he wouldn’t complain. Turning around, his eyes stopped on a stack of books. The books were plain enough, old and torn, but on top of the stack was a single ring.

His lips twitched as he stepped closer and picked the ring up; it was gold with a green-ish blue stone in the middle. Geralt hmmed as he pocketed the ring, thinking of Jaskier’s hands, always adorn in flashy jewelry. What was one more added to the collection? And with a stone that matched his eyes so clearly.

With a final look around the cave, he turned around and left.

*

The ride back was quiet, uncomfortably so. Geralt missed Jaskier’s rambling, though he’d never admit it in so many words. Once he was back at the outskirts of town, he slipped off Roach and walked to the tavern.

Jorulf was waiting for him. “Your bard is gone,” were the first words out of his mouth, before he was even close enough to properly see him in the dark, and _Geralt_ —

Well, he was pretty sure he had stopped breathing, the world slowing down around him. Jorulf quickly cleared his throat, looking sheepish.

“Not in that way,” he said gruffly, and Geralt wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

“What do you mean?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. His first thought was that Jaskier had been taken. By who, he wondered, one of his enemies or—? But Jorulf’s expression told a different story, and not one he wanted to hear by the looks of it. He waited despite the urge to scream building in the back of his throat, skin itching.

Jorulf looked off to the side and back again. “Do you have our goods?”

Geralt wanted to punch him. He didn’t; instead he stiffly turned to pull the pouch of jewelry out of his bag. Turning back, he yanked the pouch out of Jorulf’s reach when he tried for it. “ _Where_ ,” he said, slow, “is he?”

“Right, right,” he cleared his throat again. “He left—on his own. I tried to stop him, really, but he seemed to be just fine. He said he left a note in the room.”

Geralt growled. “You just let him _leave?_ ” he asked. “After he was barely able to keep food down for a week?”

Jorulf put his hands up. “He’s a grown man, is he not?”

He hated that he was right, but knowing that didn’t calm the storm in the pit of his belly. Jaskier would’ve never left without telling him, not under these circumstances. He knew Geralt would worry, even if he wasn’t so boldly truthful about it. Without a word, he shoved the pouch into Jorulf’s chest, who quickly grabbed it.

Walking around him, he entered the tavern and walked to the stairs that led to the inn. The innkeeper gave him a pitying look and he ignored her, walking a little faster.

Once he reached the door, he swung it open without warning. The room wasn’t empty; his stuff was still scattered around it, on the bed and on the dresser, but Jaskier’s bag was gone and so were his clothes and—most importantly—his lute.

Geralt slowly approached the bed and that was when he saw it the single piece of parchment. It was easy to recognize Jaskier’s handwriting after so long.

He picked it up, swiping his thumb across the words; the ink was dry. Frowning, his eyes scanned the letter. Each word was like a dagger to his heart, one after the other. He would’ve been convinced it was a fake if not for Jaskier’s handwriting, so distinct and familiar.

_I had some time to think while I was sick and I realized I made a mistake._

Geralt didn’t want to continue, but he had no other choice.

_I don’t forgive you, Geralt. I never did. I need more from life than this. Don’t look for me, please. If you care for me at all, prove it and listen to my request. Goodbye._

Geralt knew what he was talking about—of course he did, but the mountain was a distant memory by now. He assumed Jaskier had forgotten about it, or at least moved on; when they had reunited after the mountain, due to _Geralt_ , Geralt had apologized more than once. _Jaskier_ had been the one to tell him to stop, a small smile on his face.

(“I forgive you,” he had said, the bastard, a hand on his arm. “Forgive yourself.”)

Now he dared to do _this?_ Out of nowhere?

He wanted to be angry. He couldn’t be. Not at Jaskier. No, he certainly felt rage but only at himself. He turned slightly and fell heavily to the bed, gripping the letter in a fist. If he had never said those things on the mountain, Jaskier might've been here to greet him back.

Geralt should respect his request. He wasn’t sure if he could.

*

Geralt was feeling a little fuzzy after his sixth tankard of ale. _Finally_ , he thought, as he turned the ring over on the table. Jorulf had stopped by his table a little earlier, looking unexpectedly apologetic, before mentioning he was leaving and dropping off the other half of his payment. Geralt hadn’t even touched the pouch yet but he knew he’d need to, especially if he wanted to keep drowning his sorrows. The barkeep was certainly overcharging him and he didn’t even have the energy to care or fight him on it.

That had been Jaskier’s thing. _He_ had always been the one cursing others out for disrespecting Geralt or taking advantage of him, and now he was gone.

Had it all been a lie? Had he just been trying to go back to how they were the whole time only to realize it was for naught? Geralt grabbed his tankard and downed the last gulp.

Geralt couldn’t cry—that particular urge had been forced out of him a long time ago—but he _wanted_ to. Felt like the tears were just under the surface, burning his eyes. He had gotten so used to having Jaskier back, to being with him all the time, _always_ , only parting ways when he left for Kaer Morhen, that he felt off without him. Like he was missing a part of himself.

And all because of the fucking _mountain_. It had been years ago; could Jaskier really not let it go? Even after all Geralt had done for him?

Once again he felt the slight spark of anger and wanted to hold onto it, find comfort in the familiar burn of rage, but he couldn’t. All he felt was empty and alone.

 _You’re supposed to be alone_ , he reminded himself bitterly, but that didn’t stop the ache in his chest.

He thought of Lambert, who would surely laugh at him for being so strung up over a human. “As if there aren’t a _million_ more,” he would say, and he was right. Millions of humans and Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever meet another one quite like Jaskier.

Geralt took a slow breath, lifting his gaze. He caught sight of the bartender and waved; with a nod, he grabbed another tankard and filled it before walking over. Geralt drew the coins out of his pocket, handing them over.

He was stupid, wasting so much money. He didn’t care.

It was only once he was perfectly numb that he even attempted to go back to his room and sleep.

*

Geralt was forced out eventually because he had no more money for the room. The innkeeper looked vaguely apologetic, at least, or possibly just nervous. He wasn’t up for a fight, never had been, not regarding stuff like this. That had been Jaskier’s thing, constantly defending him against cruel humans.

Packing up his things, he left the inn and went around back to collect Roach. She stared at him with beady eyes, quiet and knowing. She always had been too intelligent for her own good.

“He’s gone,” he said gruffly, and she lowered her head with a snort. Surely she’d miss Jaskier too; the bard _was_ always sneaking her treats.

Chest burning, he strapped his bags to her side.

“It’ll be like the old days,” he said softly. “Just you and me.”

Roach snorted again. With a sigh, he mounted her and they took off in the early morning light. Once, he would’ve been completely contented to travel with just Roach. She—or at least variations of her—had been his only company for many years. He truly did see her as family, every one of them, but now he craved more.

He missed Jaskier’s voice, both when he rambled about silly nothings and when he began to sing.

Geralt closed his eyes as they continued on, trusting Roach to follow the road. He should look for him. A human couldn’t have gotten far, even with a horse. Finding him would be easy, undoubtedly, but the idea of finding him was just as terrifying as it was comforting. What if he looked at him like _they_ all do?

What if he begged him—with his _voice_ , not just words on a page—to leave him alone?

Could he handle that? Seeing the rage—or, worse, _disgust—_ in Jaskier’s eyes as he told him to fuck off? He wasn’t so sure. It was stupid, feeling so torn apart because of a _human_. When he had first taken to the road, he had been naive and had attempted to befriend humans, bright-eyed and too trusting, even after everything, but those friendships had never lasted very long.

Eventually he had learned his lesson and moved on, no longer mingling carelessly with humans.

Jaskier had ruined all that, for better or worse. Now, as he opened his eyes, he wondered if it wasn’t for the worse. He never wanted to feel like this again.

Roach had never broken his heart, at least.

*

Geralt arrived in the next town and took the first job he was offered, even if the payment was insulting. He accepted the small bag of coins and shoved it with the rest of his things before leaving the tavern. It was on his way out that he overheard the start of a song; it wasn’t Jaskier singing, but the flow sounded familiar, like his work.

He froze, feeling like ice had been poured over him, as he listened to the lyrics. The Butcher of Blaviken. He fled quickly after that. As he stumbled out of town, he tried desperately to forget. To focus on the job. It should’ve been an easy job. If he was at his best, he could’ve finished it without even a scratch.

Unfortunately, he was far from his best.

He killed the monster, to be fair, but not before a pair of nasty claws had ripped through his skin. Blood poured from the wound; weirdly, he felt nothing. Falling heavily to the round, he leaned back against a tree and pulled his shirt up.

The wounds were deep; he needed help. Normally, Jaskier would be near (Geralt had given up on telling him to stay behind on hunts, the stubborn bastard) and he could call out for him. Now he could only watch as the blood just kept _pouring_.

He let out a humorless laugh as he leaned his head back and stared up at the darkening sky.

“What a way to go,” he muttered before letting his eyes slid shut. Hopefully Roach would find a way back to town and some kind townsfolk would take care of her.

As for Jaskier—well, he could only hope he’d forgive him after he heard of his death.

*

“Seriously,” a voice from above him, familiar and feminine, “I search nearly half the Continent and find you _here?”_

Geralt groaned, a sharp pain in his side. Right, the wound. He slowly opened his eyes to the sight of Yennefer standing over him, hands on her hips. He was surprised to still be alive and equally as surprised by the appearance of Yennefer. How had she even found him? A spell of some sort, probably.

“I—I need—” He gestured at his side. Yennefer raised a dark eyebrow and crouched down, skirts pooling around her waist. She stared at his side rather boredly. “ _Yen_ ,” he hissed. “My bag.”

She sighed. “You’re not injured, you big oaf,” she said with a confidence that was hard to argue, even with the blinding pain in his side.

Geralt frowned, shifting a little. The pain radiated down to his thigh. “Are you sure about that?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Mhm,” she replied, still far too calmly. “Positive. Now how about we get you out of here?” She stood up, glancing around with pursed lips. “A fairly detailed dream, I have to admit.”

He stared up at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The pain he felt was certainly _very_ real, both from the wound in his side and the _other_ pain. The pain he hadn’t been able to get rid of since Jaskier left.

Yennefer tilted her head, peering down at him with something akin to pity. It was unsettling. “You aren’t _here_ , Geralt,” she said, gesturing around at their surroundings. “I don’t know the details, since you didn’t tell Jaskier much, but you’re back at that cave.” Her nose wrinkled. “This place _reeks_ of magic. Couldn’t you tell?”

Geralt blinked. “I don’t know. A little. I assumed there were just bewitched items,” he mumbled. As he talked, the pain wavered, lessening more and more. He pressed a hand to his side; the flow of blood had stopped at some point.

“Not exactly,” she said, kneeling again. “The whole cave reeks of it. Ancient stuff. Even I wouldn’t know where to start to cleanse it.”

Geralt turned to lift his shirt again; the wound was gone, closed up entirely, not even leaving a scar behind. Yennefer sighed softly. "The man mentioned an orphan—"

"No sign of anyone being here in a while," she answered. He heard her soft footsteps, and then: "You’ve been missing for weeks, Geralt,” she continued, and his head whipped around to look at her. “If you were a human, you might be dead. Since you didn’t tell Jaskier any details, we didn’t know where to look.” Geralt’s heart beat just a little quicker at the mention of his name. “Until we found that fool and he told us about this place.”

At his silence, Yennefer narrowed her eyes.

“What have you seen in here?” she asked, and there was something uncharacteristically soft about her voice; unsettling and comforting all at once. Geralt grunted.

“Can’t you just get me out of here?”

With a sigh, she leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, muttering something under her breath. Unlike before, even this close to her, he felt nothing. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, and he did. “Okay,” she said after a few minutes. “Open.”

He opened his eyes and winced, stumbling a few steps. He didn’t even know when he had stood, or if he had. Yennefer caught him by the arm, steadying him.

When he opened his eyes again, he found that Yennefer had been right—they were in the cave. The jewelry he had supposedly delivered to Jorulf was still piled high in front of him. Yennefer squeezed his arm once before letting go.

“I—I’ve been here the whole time?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

Yennefer picked up a necklace, eyeing it. “Mhm,” she replied. “Jaskier eventually found me when you didn’t return after a couple weeks.” She placed the necklace back with the rest of the jewelry. “He was convinced you had abandoned him.”

Geralt could’ve laughed. “ _Me_? Abandon _him_?”

After the last few weeks, real or not, it was laughable to think he’d ever willingly leave Jaskier.

She side-eyed him. “I know,” she said easily. “I told him he was crazy for even thinking it, but he was convinced. Said he’d been sick for too long, and you must’ve grown tired of caring for him.”

“I—I wouldn’t,” he said, suddenly desperate. “I might have, early on, but now I wouldn’t.”

Yennefer hummed, crossing back to him. “What happened in that dream of yours, hm?” she asked, tilting her head. There was the usual curiosity in her eyes, always seeking knowledge, but there was more than that as well—pity, again.

Geralt swallowed thickly. “Nothing.”

“You’re _upset_ ,” she said firmly. It wasn’t a question. She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Geralt leaned heavily against one side of the cave; he might not have been injured, but he _was_ exhausted and weak. Yennefer waited patiently, arms folded over her chest. “It was—I don’t know. The dream was a lot like real life,” he said with a stiff shrug.

Yennefer was silent as he struggled for what to say next, unable to look directly at her.

“But there was some differences,” he admitted gruffly. Differences that had left him feeling numb. That had ripped the fight out of him.

Yennefer sighed. “Let me guess,” she said, “those differences had to do with a certain bard.”

Geralt finally looked at her. “How—?”

“The magic might be ancient, Geralt, but I’ve already figured out the outlines of it,” she explained as she glanced around the cave. “A type of curse, but not quite. Makes the inflicted live out their worst nightmare. Typically until death, but, well,” she turned back to him, “I’m assuming the person didn’t account for your kind.”

Geralt knew arguing with Yennefer never ended well, and for all he knew she was right. Instead he focused on the important part. “And why would that have anything to do with Jaskier?” he asked, feeling a little out of his element, like Yennefer was seeing right through him. For all he knew, she was.

She stared at him blankly. “What happened in your dream?” At his lack of response, she smiled. “Exactly.”

*

Geralt glanced back at the cave. “We’re really just leaving it?” he asked. Yennefer walked at his side, leading the way back down the mountain.

“I can’t break it on my own,” she said with a frown. “I could return with help, but I doubt it’ll get many visitors.”

Geralt nodded, facing ahead again. That was when he remembered: “Fuck,” he cursed. He glanced around, heart squeezing. Yennefer tapped his arm and pointed ahead; Roach was waiting for them. His shoulders fell. “How?”

“She found her way back to Jaskier,” she replied. “I hoped she’d lead us back to you eventually but alas, a horse is just a horse.”

Geralt glared at her halfheartedly.

Once he was close enough, he wrapped his arms around her and took a deep breath of her familiar smell. Next to Jaskier, it was his favorite smell in the world. He stiffened, sparing a look behind him at Yennefer. She had promised once to no longer root around in his head but he knew better than to trust her word.

“I’m not in your head,” she replied sharply. “Not that I’d need to be to know what you’re thinking,” she continued once Geralt had pulled away and they started walking again.

If Geralt was smart, he’d leave it, but, well, he was many things. Not especially smart. “What do you mean?”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “I’m no longer demanding,” she said. “But if you wish to talk about your nightmare, I’m listening.” She side-eyed him. “And I swear not to tell your bard a word of it.”

Geralt stared ahead, not daring to look at her. “Why are you so sure my nightmare had anything to do with him?” he asked, because he wasn’t _that_ obvious. He knew he wasn’t. Jaskier didn’t know, at least, and he was annoyingly observant.

“Because I know you,” she said, a little softer. He couldn’t tell if he preferred her voice that way or not. “I can’t begin to understand why that bard means so much to you, but I know he does and—” She paused, clearing her throat. “I respect that.”

Geralt finally looked at her. She stared back at him, eyes sincere.

“He left me,” he confessed after a long stretch of silence, quickly looking away again.

Yennefer made a soft noise that sounded a lot like, “ _ah_.” Geralt ignored the pain in his chest as he remembered his dream. “It was so—realistic, but not. I should’ve known better.” He shook his head. Jaskier would never turn on him, not like so many others. “He said he couldn’t forgive me after the mountain.”

He saw the way Yennefer’s eyes widened a little. “You really think he’d hold such a grudge?”

Geralt let out a strained laugh. “You don’t know him as well as I do,” he muttered. “But no, not about that.”

Yennefer hummed, looking ahead. “You haven’t seen him these last few weeks,” she said. “He wasn’t nearly as annoying as usual,” she continued, and for the first time Geralt heard fondness in her voice as she spoke of the bard, “I was worried what would happen if we never found you, frankly.”

“He would’ve been fine,” he replied, too quickly.

Yennefer side-eyed him. “Are you going to tell him?” she asked. He didn’t answer or even dare to look her way. “I think you’d be surprised by the outcome,” she added after a while, “but as per usual your stubborn streak is going to make you suffer for nothing.”

Geralt didn’t reply because he didn’t know what to say. Yennefer didn’t know what she was talking about, even if she thought she did.

“Well,” she said. “Be prepared.”

He just grunted.

*

He better understood her warning when they finally reached the town and approached the inn. Before they even reached it, Jaskier was a flurry of movement, running their way. Geralt wasn’t sure what to expect but it wasn’t Jaskier instantly tackling him.

Thankfully it was easy to hold him up, even given his weakened state. Geralt had missed Jaskier in his dream ( _nightmare_ , his brain corrected because it had been nothing less) but he hadn’t realized just how much.

Pulling back, Jaskier stared at him with wide eyes. “Geralt, are you—?” He reached for his face and Geralt swiftly grabbed him by the wrist, swallowing thickly.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly.

Jaskier visibly softened. “I was angry at first,” he said softly. It was like Yennefer wasn’t even there, just the two of them in their own world. “I thought you’d—I mean, I was a burden, I know, but I couldn’t believe you’d actually _leave_ me.”

Geralt squeezed his wrist. “I wouldn’t,” he said.

With a small smile, Jaskier stepped back and turned to Yennefer. Geralt was genuinely shocked when he hugged her, even more shocked when she let him. He heard his whispered, “thanks,” and watched Yennefer’s hand awkwardly rub circles on his back.

“I should really be off,” she said as they separated. Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, undoubtedly, but she smiled a little slyly. “I think you two have some catching up to do. And you—” She glared at Geralt. “You owe me.”

He nodded once, because he really did owe her, before she sniffed and turned away to conjure a portal. Jaskier looked sad as she stepped through the portal and disappeared from sight, the portal closing behind her.

“I see you two have grown close,” he said stiffly.

Jaskier snorted, turning back to him. “I was a mess,” he confessed. “She helped me a lot.”

Geralt ignored the sharp pain he knew well—jealously. “You’re better,” he blurted. Jaskier blinked a couple times before nodding.

“Good as new,” he confirmed. Jaskier fidgeted with the hem of his shirt; it wasn’t one of his usual flashy doublets. “What about you? I mean, where _were_ you? Yennefer was just about to give up when she finally had a breakthrough—” He paused, eyebrows furrowing. He very nearly looked like he was about to reach out to him, and Geralt—wanted that, he realized, more than he wanted anything right now. Just to confirm he was really there. “Are you okay?”

Geralt looked away. “Yes,” he answered instantly, because that was what he always did: _lied_. It was a way to protect himself, and also an excuse to be a coward. One peek at Jaskier’s frown and his stomach lurched. Fuck, fuck, he was doing it again. His nightmare hadn’t been real, but the outcome was all too possible. One day Jaskier would grow tired of his crap and move on, and he wouldn’t even be able to blame him. “No,” he corrected weakly. “Not really.”

Jaskier nodded, biting his bottom lip. Geralt pointedly didn’t stare. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he answered honestly, instantly, “but I probably should.”

Jaskier visibly softened, all big blue eyes, full of worry and compassion, and he was too good for him. Even when he was being a bastard, or complaining constantly about his sore feet, or arguing with him about the dumbest things, Jaskier was still good. Geralt wasn’t sure he deserved his companionship, and he knew he didn’t deserve more, but he wanted to selfishly keep him around for as long as possible.

“Come on,” Jaskier said, gently placing a hand on his arm. His touch was like fire. “We’ll grab some food and talk in the room.”

*

Jaskier did all of the work, ordering enough food for two and bringing the steaming bowls up to their room; Geralt had never enjoyed stew more, the warmth soothing his empty stomach. Jaskier was quiet for once, patiently eating his own food a lot slower.

That was when Geralt noticed Jaskier was a lot skinnier than he left him; his collarbones poked out, sharp and awkward, his face a little hollower. Had he not been eating properly? Was it from the sickness or worry? A mix of both, maybe.

It was only once they had both finished eating that Geralt knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.

“I took a job to retrieve jewelry from a cave,” he said, and Jaskier just nodded, watching him closely. “The guy told me he thought some orphan had run off with it or something. The cave was—cursed, if you will. Yen called it ancient magic; even she couldn’t break it.”

Jaskier looked a little surprised, but that was all. “Must be bad, then,” he said evenly.

Geralt’s eyes flickered off to the side. “The curse—essentially, it put you in a deep slumber. Most humans would’ve died being out as long as I had.” Jaskier’s expression shifted a bit, somehow both relieved and worried all at once. “In your slumber,” he continued slowly, feeling like he was about to expose too much and yet not enough, “you lived through your worst nightmare.”

“Oh.” Jaskier frowned, looking down at his hands. “That must’ve been terrible.”

Geralt watched him, waiting. “You’re not going to ask?” he questioned finally. Jaskier looked up.

“I’m the curious type, Geralt,” he replied gently, “but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” He smiled slightly. “I’d understand. I’m just—” His eyes glistened for a moment, and Geralt wondered if he was going to cry. Jaskier complained a lot, but he didn’t cry much. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Geralt could’ve taken it, the easy out Jaskier was extending to him, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure he wanted to. He could share some of the truth without all of it, after all.

“You left me,” he said.

Jaskier blinked at him. “What?”

“In my dream, you—” Geralt ignored the ache of his heart, as if the pain of his dream was still real, eating away at him, “you left me. You stopped singing of my heroics and sang other songs instead.” Jaskier frowned, looking confused because in this world, in the real world, Geralt knew Jaskier would never even consider doing any of that. The leaving, certainly, he’d grow too old eventually and realize he couldn’t continue on, but he would never sing of Geralt’s monstrosity, real or not.

“What do you mean?” he asked, still frowning.

Geralt shrugged sharply. “You left behind a note,” he continued, not daring to look at him. “Said you realized you couldn’t forgive me for—for the things I said on the mountain.” Jaskier’s eyes widened, just like Yennefer’s had. “And said that you needed more from life.”

“And you mentioned songs?” he prompted.

Geralt swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You sang of my old moniker,” he admitted, and he didn’t even need to say it; suddenly Jaskier was off the bed and on his feet, looking furious.

“That fucking— _fuck_ ,” he said with feeling, spinning away. Geralt stared at his back, unsure of what to say. Finally Jaskier turned back around, an expression of pure determination on his face. He approached the bed again and sat down. “I don’t care what you did to me, Geralt, I would never betray you like that.”

Geralt nodded a little stiffly. “I should’ve known. You leaving wasn’t unexpected but when I—”

“No, no, wait,” Jaskier interrupted quickly, eyes back to wide and disbelieving. “You think I’d _leave_? For good?”

Geralt didn’t know what to say to that. “Eventually,” he admitted. “You’ll want more than what—” _I_ can give you, is what he wanted to say but that was too much, too honest “—this life can give.”

“And why do you think that?” he countered, and the disbelief was gone and replaced by his usual stubbornness, eyes hard. “I am _quite_ happy where I am, thank you very much,” he added with a curt nod.

Geralt didn’t believe him, even if he wanted to. “I’ll eventually do or say something worse,” he said, and he hated knowing it was true. He always fucked things up. “And you’ll realize you deserve better. I wouldn’t be mad.”

Upset, certainly, but not _mad_. He really would understand.

Jaskier moved so fast Geralt questioned if he was really human, cupping Geralt’s face between his hands. Geralt was frozen, staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Maybe Jaskier really _wasn’t_ human. He’d believe it with eyes like that.

“It took me _decades_ to wiggle my way under that armor of yours,” he said. “You’re even dumber than I thought if you think I’d ever let that go.”

Geralt tried to force his mouth open to say— _anything_ —but he couldn’t; the words were stuck to the back of his throat. As if understanding, Jaskier let his hands fall and instead moved in to wrap his arms around him. Geralt suddenly unfroze, moving to wrap his own arms around the middle of Jaskier. He was warm against him. Geralt turned his head, nose brushing against his neck, and got a whiff of his natural smell, comforting and familiar.

He had so much he wanted to say and yet his cowardice wouldn’t let him. One day, he hoped, squeezing Jaskier impossibly tighter. Shifting, Geralt felt something hard in his pocket. He quickly pulled back, remembering the ring. Not part of the dream, then. Jaskier peered at him worriedly, lingering close. 

Without a word, he reached down and retrieved the ring from his pocket, holding it out to Jaskier. It was just how he remembered if not a little duller. Jaskier blinked once before taking the ring out of the palm of his hand. "For me?"

Geralt was suddenly grateful he couldn't blush, cheeks hot. "If you want it," he answered quickly.

Jaskier smiled, a mix of shy and sly, a look only a few could pull off and Jaskier—well, he was one of them. "Obviously," he said, just the side of too haughty. Geralt could tell he was doing it on purpose, trying to lighten the situation, likely for him. "Matches my eyes, don't you think?" he asked once he'd slipped the ring on his finger, holding his hand up to show it off.

"Mmm," he agreed, and Jaskier's grin was as bright as any sun.

*

It was only on their way out a couple days later that Geralt crossed paths with Jorulf again. His first instinct was anger; whether or not he knew the risks of the cave, he was still the reason for all of it. Jaskier's presence by his side, familiar and comforting, helped reel most of that anger back in. 

Pulling the pouch out of his bag, he dropped it in Jorulf's palm. "Fetch the jewelry yourself," he said easily before turning away and continuing out of the tavern with Jaskier. 


End file.
